


A Sorta Faerietale

by jezziejay



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M, utter silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 08:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13119495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezziejay/pseuds/jezziejay
Summary: Technically, it’s always Christmas at the North Pole, but officially, it starts on the first of August.  From then on, it’s just one long loop of aIt’s a Wonderful Lifeand gingerbread men.  By the end of September, Patrick’s about ready to throttle himself with a piece of tinsel.  Every year.Every.  Year.





	A Sorta Faerietale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoffeeKristin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeKristin/gifts).



> While the final part of witch!jonny is on edit mode, I dug this out from three years ago, and finally gave it an ending.  
> It's shockingly teeth rottingly grossly sappy. And silly. But if I'm ever gonna get away with a story about elves and faeries, with Ned Flanders style swearing, it's gonna be at Christmas.
> 
> Many thanks to [saudades](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saudades) for speedy and always supportive beta. <3

Technically, it’s always Christmas at the North Pole, but officially, it starts on the first of August. From then on, it’s just one long loop of a _It’s a Wonderful Life_ and gingerbread men. By the end of September, Patrick’s about ready to throttle himself with a piece of tinsel. Every year.

Every. Year.

“Happy Birthday,” someone says. 

“You’re a day late,” Patrick answers. “And there was nothing happy about it.” He doesn’t look up from the straw he’s shovelling. He knows who it is. Doesn’t even have to skirt his eyes across to the wooden clogs or the striped tights, or the red coat that cuts off midway up Jonny’s thighs. Jonny’s been even more insufferable since Santa allowed him to trim the velvet with faux fur to signify his new promotion.

As if he wasn’t bad enough when he was just boss of the elves. Now he’s in charge of the Naughty or Nice List. He carries it around with him like he’s _super-duper_ special.

Ugh.

“No wings,” Jonny says quietly.

Patrick shrugs his bare shoulders. All of him is bare, except for the tight pants that cut off just below his knees, and those are just for modesty. His body temperature never fluctuates.

(He tried to wear clothes and shoes before. It felt like he’d just dipped himself in latex, and he was practically hypoxic when his mom found him. He’d been in such a panic that she’d had to cut the jacket off of him. Jess was so mad. It had been her jacket.)

“Too bad,” Jonny says, and Patrick drags his eyes up. Jonny’s tugging one of the pointy ears that hang out over his green cone-shaped hat. He has the stupid list clutched to the dumb C on his chest, and he’s drawn all the way up to his four feet and two inches. He thinks he’s _sooo_ great just because Patrick is four inches shorter. Well, Patrick will have it known that 3’10 is a perfectly respectable height for a fully grown faerie. Even if no one asked.

“Go away,” he says rudely.

“You’re grumpy,” Jonny says, drawing back a little. 

“So? Is that against the rules?”

“Yes, actually, it is. Christmas Rule #9 - **No Being Grumpy at Christmas**.” Jonny’s actually fishing the Christmas Manual from his pocket.

In. Suff. Er. A. Ble.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like Christmas,” Patrick says, sticking his tongue out for added shock-value. 

If Jonny were wearing pearls right now, he’d be clutching them. As it is, he reaches for his smelling salts (two cinnamon sticks rolled in spiced sugar), and inhales deeply. “You can’t say that,” he gasps when he’s composed himself, looking around him like someone else might be listening. There’s only the reindeer, and they don’t say much even if they do hear everything.

“I just did,” Patrick taunts. “And you know what else I don’t like. Elves.”

Jonny’s eyes are bugging out of his head. “But... but, that’s a terrible thing to say, Patrick. Your sisters are elves. Your parents are elves. And all four of your grandparents, all your aunts and uncles, and every one of your fifty-six first cousins.”

Typical of Jonny to find the flaw in Patrick’s cognitive dissonance. It’s less about not liking elves and more about desperately wanting to be one. And it’s not like he needs Jonny to remind him that there hadn’t been a faerie born into the Kane family for five generations.

“Go away,” Patrick says petulantly, already done with this. “You’re a pain in the baubles.” 

“Fine,” Jonny snaps, all pinched discomfort. 

“And feel free to add me to the Naughty List,” Patrick sneers.

“Add you?” Jonny says, incredulous. “ _Add_ you.”

*****

His mom finds him sulking in front of the mirror that evening. “Darling,” she says, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. 

“Shawsy said you found me under a cabbage.”

Donna’s lips twitch slightly before she schools her face into something more sympathetic. “Patrick, you are a Kane. Born of my belly and your father’s loins.”

Ew. Like anyone wanted to know anything about their father’s loins.

“But I’m not an elf,” Patrick whispers miserably. He had tried very hard to be. He’d tugged on his ears all the live-long day and when that didn’t work, he’d allowed Erica and Jacqui to put pegs on them and pull until his eyes watered.

But to no avail. His ears remained resolutely and stubbornly shell-shaped.

“Look at you,” his mom says, cupping his head so he can’t turn away from the mirror. 

Patrick looks. His eyes are bright blue, his curls soft and blond, his lips wide and always wet looking. 

“You look like an angel. What else could you be but a faerie,” she says proudly, smacking a fierce kiss on his permanently flushed cheeks.

“I could be an elf,” he sniffs.

*****

Everyone knows that faeries only get their wings when they kiss their one true love. There are only five other faeries in the North Pole, and all of them had kissed their loves by the time they reached twenty. Shawsy had only been seventeen when he’d smacked one on Bollig and consequently sprouted two beautiful wings that he enjoyed fluttering in Patrick’s face. 

It was unheard of for a faerie to reach the age of twenty-one without finding his or her own mate and wings.

Until Patrick. Patrick had totally smashed that record. Blew it out of the ballpark.

It wasn’t for the want of trying. He kissed everyone he met. He’d kissed Sharpy and Hoss and Seabs and Duncs and Crow and Smithy and Bicks, and all of their partners. He was desperate and shameless. He even kissed Jonny once. He’d just had enough time for their lips to press together before Jonny pushed him away. 

“Sorry,” Jonny said immediately, and took a hesitant step towards Patrick, but Patrick waved him away. 

“My bad,” he said. He wasn’t offended by the rejection, just dismayed by the lack of wingage.

He got a summons to Santa’s chalet.

“You can’t just go around kissing folk, Patrick,” Santa said.

“Why not?” Patrick said mulishly. “It’s not my fault that my getting wings is dependent on the antiquated notion of finding my destiny in another. Personally, I find that all sorts of offensive, but I’m just doing what needs to be done. Making the best of the situation.”

Santa looked at him for a long moment before sighing and tapping on his thigh. It took four hops before Patrick could climb up onto his lap. 

“That may be,” Santa said a little sadly, wrapping a gentle arm around Patrick’s waist. “But that’s the way of the North Pole. It doesn’t mean that you can just go around putting the moves on everybody.”

Patrick shuddered. Santa saying ‘putting the moves on everybody’ was right up there with hearing that his dad’s loins had fruit. “Doesn’t really matter anymore,” he grumbled. “I’ve kissed everyone here. There's nobody left..."

Although. Not everyone. Patrick pulls his head back a little. He's pretty sure that Santa probably has some lips hiding under his whiskers. Maybe if Patrick - 

"Absolutely not, Patrick," Santa said.

“Definitely absolutely not, Patrick,” Mrs. Claus said, her eyes twinkling as she entered the room. “Joel, supper is ready.”

Santa nodded and turned back to Patrick. “Patrick, let me give you a little advice.”

Patrick clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “I know. I know. If I stop looking for love, it will find me. I’ve heard it all -”

“No,” Santa said firmly. “Never stop looking for your love, Patrick. Do you understand me? You must never, ever stop looking.” His grey eyes were so intense that Patrick almost said, 'sheesh, chill dude', but he caught himself in time.

“Just keep my lips to myself in the meantime,” he offered instead.

“I’d appreciate it,” Santa agreed.

“We all would,” Sharpy grinned, poking his head in an open window.

*****

The Great Tree Reveal is a week after Patrick’s birthday, and Patrick doesn’t want to go. But his mom is having none of that nonsense, and so he trudges behind, lagging until he finds himself lost at the back of an ever growing crowd. The entire town is out in force for what is a tradition as old as the North Pole itself. With all the commotion, it doesn’t take long for it to be safe to slip up the hill without being noticed.

Patrick sighs as his butt hits the snow and melts it. Below him is a scene that would make Dickens weep; laughing children, swaddled babies, adults greeting each other loudly and warmly. There are snowballs and lanterns and Christmas Carols and clinking mugs of peppermint flavoured hot chocolate. Patrick makes faces at all of it until he hears the crunch of clogs-on-snow behind him.

“Keep walking,” he growls without looking. He’d recognise the long-sufferance in that sigh anywhere. Jonny sighs a second time and then does as Patrick suggests. 

A few minutes later, Santa appears to officially open proceedings. The crowd cheers with excitement and then grows reverently quiet when the lights go out and everywhere is plunged into Arctic darkness. Patrick would like to shut out what’s coming by closing his eyes, but he forces himself to look as five dull orbs appear from the distance, their light growing stronger and brighter as they fly closer. The onlookers gasp and clap their hands excitedly when the vague blobs take on a more defined shape, glittering wings swishing through the air, shimmering and magnificent.

“Ahhhhh,” cries the crowd as the faeries fly uniformly to the giant tree that everyone is gathered around.

“Ohhhh,” they squeal when the branches are touched by magical, fluttering fingers, coming to life under a sudden burst of fairy lights and candle glow. Soon the whole tree is illuminated and the children tip their faces to the top branch in awe. The faeries are all gathered a hundred feet above them, ready to conjure up their most spectacular trick. Ten tiny hands reach into the sky and beckon the North Star closer, guiding it until it sits just above the highest point of the tree.

The applause is thundering, and Patrick lets his eyes close then. He doesn’t want to see adoration that he thought might be his this year. So, he sits, his ass and face damp, the saddest not-an-elf-and-failed-faerie in the whole of the North Pole.

*****

He stops by the barn on the way home because the reindeer need fed, and he needs to grumble at them while they munch on ears of corn and and crunchy carrots. But when he gets there, Santa is already coming out of the shed, closing the door and effectively blocking Patrick’s path.

“Ah, Patrick,” he says mildly.

Patrick drops his eyes. “Just going to feed the guys,” he mumbles.

“Already done,” Santa says.

“But that’s my job,” Patrick whines. “I mean,” he adds bitterly. “It’s no magically decorating the giant tree, but it’s still my job.”

Santa sighs heavily, and he says nothing for a long minute. “It’s not your job anymore, Patrick. Not this year.”

Patrick gapes at him. “I’m fired? From feeding the reindeer? You’re firing me from feeding the reindeer?”

“Not firing, redirecting.”

“To where? To what? To why?”

“Ah, Patrick,” Santa says gently. He bends to scoop Patrick up, setting the mutinous little body onto the crook of one enormous arm. Patrick’s bare feet swing in the air. “The reindeer eat more than vegetables and grains. They feed off of joy and happiness and excitement. They eat it and store it and use it it to drive them on Christmas Eve. And well, it seems like you’re all out of those things right now. Frankly, you’re bringing the guys down. I had to slip Comet a little Prozac.”

“Great,” Patrick grumbles, kicking his feet more furiously. “Not-an-elf-failed-faerie-and-now-sucky-reindeer-watcher.”

“But awesome toy maker,” Santa says, smiling softly. 

Patrick can feel his eyes grow wide with horror. “You mean, I have to go work for… Jonny?”

This is the worst day in the history of worst days.

“Aren’t you lucky?” Santa says. “Everyone loves working with Jonny.”

“Jonny sucks,” Patrick blurts, and is immediately horrified with himself. Nobody ever says anything mean about anybody in the Pole. And saying something bad about the bestest elf that ever elfed is probably a felony. Patrick’s probably headed for an Intervention Convention. Shawsy had to do one of those once. “ _I had to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas in front of an open fire, and drink endless cups of cocoa topped with marshmallows while four puppies and three kittens crawled all over me,” Shawsy had said. “I couldn’t stop smiling. It was awful_.”

But Santa doesn’t immediately banish Patrick to the Snuggles and Huggles Cove. He doesn’t even seem angry; it’s almost as if his lips are trying desperately not quirk upwards. This gives Patrick the momentum to continue as Santa sets him back down. “He’s so bossy. He thinks he’s all that. Acts like he can do everything. He’s sooo annoying.”

“That’s enough, young fae,” Santa chastises, and he’s definitely smiling. Which Patrick doesn’t understand, but then, there are a lot of things that Patrick doesn’t understand these days. “Away with you and report for duty at the Toy Factory in the morning.”

*****

Patrick has to pass by Jonny’s house on his way home, and he finds himself rapping on the front door, just so Jonny can know in advance that Patrick is not one bit happy with him. While he’s waiting, he licks the shiny green windowsill, and he’s spitting onto the snow when Jonny pulls the door open, just a crack wide enough for Patrick to see a welding mask pushed up over two crazy dark eyes.

“Why is your windowsill made of kale?” Patrick asks, grimacing.

“Why are you licking my windowsill?”

“I thought it was peppermint. I like peppermint. I don’t like kale.”

“Well, maybe I don’t like people licking my windowsill. What do you want, Patrick?” Jonny pulls the door over more so that Patrick can’t see inside at all.

“No thanks,” Patrick drawls. “I really can’t come in. I just wanted to let you know that I’m starting in the Toy Factory tomorrow. But you don’t need to throw me a welcoming party, or anything. Actually, if we could pretend that I’m not there at all, that would probably be best.”

Jonny face is a comical frown fest. “You’re coming to work at the factory?” he groans. That takes care of any suspicion about Santa and Jonny being in cahoots about Patrick’s new career. Jonny looks every bit as happy as Patrick feels about their new situation.

“What are you doing, anyway?” he asks, nodding at the blowtorch in Jonny’s hand. “Bringing your work home?”

Jonny looks down. “Something like that,” he shrugs.

“Something like that,” Patrick mimics, beginning to turn away. “I’ll be there about nine.”

“You’ll be there at seven thirty,” Jonny corrects. “And hey, you like liquorice, right?”

“Right,” Patrick says, the protest dying on his lips. He _loves_ liquorice. 

“Try the gate,” Jonny suggests and then slams the door shut.

Patrick does try the gate, tongue already dripping drool as he licks at it. 

It’s not liquorice. It’s chili, and Patrick howls so loud that the snow gathered on the lamppost clatters down onto his head.

(On the bright side, it soothes his burning mouth.)

*****

Patrick’s floor in the workshop is called The Ice, for reasons unknown to him. What he does know is that his cubby is at the back, which suits him. Almost everybody keeps their distance.

_Almost_ everybody.

“You’re better than this,” Jonny says quietly as he rattles the badly constructed dollhouse that Patrick threw together in sixty seconds. “I hope you did a better job with the others.”

“The others?” Patrick says innocently.

Jonny stares at him for a long moment, but instead of throwing a hissy fit like Patrick had hoped, all he does is step forward and take down the list that is taped to the wall. “So, this is your first one? Which means that this is for Tiegan.”

Patrick eyes him warily. 

“Did you even bother to read the notes? About the child you’re making this for?”

“Who has the time?” Patrick says, squirming, and moving back from Jonny’s approach. 

Jonny nods. “True,” he concedes. “Why don’t I…”

“No,” Patrick blurts, trying to turn and run. He’s heard about Jonny’s gift, never saw it, never wanted to. It was freaky and weird and...too late, because Jonny has a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick isn’t here anymore.

He’s in a quiet, dimly lit room. There’s a tiny girl in a bed that is too big for her. Her eyes are huge and dark, and her hair is gone. A tube is feeding a fluid into her arm, and a woman sits on a chair beside her. She’s writing something as the child talks. Patrick can’t hear what it is but Jonny’s voice narrates from beside him - 

“Tiegan is telling her mom what she wants for Christmas. She wanted to go home from hospital but that’s not possible, so all she wants now is a doll house. Maybe it could have a bath for the dolls, as there is only a shower in the bathroom at her house. But she doesn’t really mind. She understands that Santa and his elves are very busy at this time. She hopes we all have a very merry Christmas and a healthy New Year. She’ll make sure to leave out a treat for the reindeer on Christmas Eve.”

The whole time, Jonny’s hand is a weight on Patrick’s shoulder, and then it shakes him, bringing Patrick back to the workshop and right into Jonny’s soft gaze. 

Patrick blinks furiously at his damp eyes, and shudders when Jonny’s hand moves lower, until it’s right over Patrick’s heart. “This is so full,” Jonny says quietly. “Why don’t you pour some of what’s in here into what’s over there?” He jerks his head towards Patrick’s shame - the pile of wood that barely even resembles a house.

“You’re a horrible elf,” Patrick sniffs, pushing Jonny away and wiping at his nose. But there’s no bite in his tone. “Go annoy someone else, I have work to do.”

Jonny smiles before he leaves, and Patrick scowls for a good ten minutes.

*****

Tiegan’s dollhouse has three bedrooms, one for each of her dolls. Every room is ensuite, with its own bath. There’s also a hot tub and a swimming pool in the basement. Patrick checks his notes and makes signs for each of the doors - for Lulu, Millie, and Gorka. And then he closes his eyes and remembers what he saw in Tiegan’s hospital room. Pink. There had been so much pink. He gets to painting. He remembers seeing a stuffed dog near Tiegan’s pillow, so this mansion needs a giant dog kennel, one with a big soft bed and another bath. Dogs need baths, too. Nails. Tiegan and her mom had their nails painted with glittery gel. So, clearly a nail bar is in order. And well, what’s the point in having pretty nails if you can’t show them off? Patrick builds a disco room on the roof, with strobes and lights that will swirl all around the hospital room, and tops it all off with an iPod dock.

But he saves his best for the huge lawn that surrounds the house. He fills it with firs and pine cones that will never lose their smell, and ice that will never melt. She may be stuck indoors, but Tiegan can press her face close to the garden and be whisked into a cold forest.

The elves gather quietly near Patrick’s cubby, watching him work and whispering in awed voices, but he doesn’t have time to stop. He needs to get started on Oliver’s airport hanger. That’s number two on his list of two hundred.

Patrick works through the closing bell, is still hammering away when Jonny appears at the door. And well, he’s not going to lie, seeing the look of pride on Jonny’s face when he surveys all of Patrick’s work does make his heart swell a little.

“Soft hands,” Jonny says, almost in wonder. 

Patrick shrugs like it’s no biggie, but he also blushes a little.

“Time to clock off,” Jonny adds. “There’s lots more to do tomorrow.”

“In a while,” Patrick says. “I just want to finish off a few more things first.” Hannah’s rollerskates, and Tommy’s pirate ship, and Joey’s Nerf Gun…

*****

It’s only on the way home that Patrick realises that he hasn’t felt sorry for himself in at least eight hours. That was going to change as soon as he got home. He was going to get into bed and remember all his woes and have an epic pity party. He’s thinking about this as he’s passing Jonny’s house. There’s a lot of noise coming from inside, like metal being crunched and murdered, and something smells like it might be burning.

Jonny is so weird.

But, anyways, when Patrick falls into bed that evening, he falls asleep before he can even begin to list the suckatage of his life.

*****

He becomes a bit of a hero at the Toyshop. Not to brag, or anything. But the elves like watching him work, they try to copy his creations, and they leave him gifts of hot drinks and peppermint candies. He’s even in the running for Toymaker of the Year. There’s talk of a trophy from Batman at a big fancy-schmancy ceremony.

It’s all good. He’s found his niche, he’s passionate about what he does, and he even makes friends. Artemi, the other big deal in the factory, has forgiven Patrick for trying to kiss his mate, Artemi without the _I_. They hang out a lot, just generally being better than everyone else. Patrick works hard and is the last man off the Ice every evening.

It’s good. Great even. 

And Jonny. Well. Jonny.

Patrick gets it now. Why Jonny got that trim around his coat. Why he’s in charge of the Naughty and Nice List. Jonny is amazing at what he does. He’s always there, quick with a supportive word or an encouraging smile or a gentle shove. He’s steady, and strong, and a little dumb. And Patrick still delights in finding ways to make him piggy.

“How about the Patrick Kane Superhero Action Figure?”

Jonny sighs. “What’s the superpower?”

“Awesomeness.”

“No.”

“Okay. The Jonny Toews punching bag. You do have a very punchable face.”

“No.”

“And every time a kid hits it, your voice says, _be better, kid_.”

“Patrick.”

“Sheesh, okay. What about this then, Chief Elf Naysayer?” Patrick pulls a doll from under the table and waves it carelessly in front of Jonny.

Jonny eyes it suspiciously. “What does it do?” he asks, tone flat. “Spray water in your face? Give you a surprise haircut in your sleep? Shave off your eyebrows? Draw on a mustache in permanent marker?”

“No. But I will file those suggestions away for future consideration. This is Varma, a type of Worry Doll. See this?” He points to the small handprint carved into the chest, where the heart would be.

Jonny steps forward, interested now.

“So, the kid fits his hand in there, and transfers his worry to the doll. It actually lights up so that the kid can see it going.”

“That’s a great idea,” Jonny says quietly.

“And, well,” Patrick continues. “Some worries are really big and they might not go away altogether. But Varma will always mind it for a while, give the kid a break, you know.”

Jonny holds the doll almost like a baby, his hand drifting to the carving. “Varma, meaning safe. Secure. That’s. That’s good work, Patrick. Where did you get the inspiration from?”

_You. I got it from you. When you put your hand on my heart and made me forget my many, many failings._

“From my creative genius, obviously,” Patrick scoffs, and Jonny rolls his eyes.

*****

Jonny starts to look a little unhinged on the run up to Christmas.

“Is he always like this?” Patrick asks Artemi while they both watch Jonny pace up and down, muttering to himself and shaking his head a little maniacally. 

“No,” Artemi says. “This is new. And is that oil smeared across his cheek?”

“Think so,” Patrick agrees. “He smells like a motorbike.”

“Weird,” Artemi muses, and gets back to his toy building. Patrick isn’t quite as dismissive. Jonny looks stressed.

And Patrick doesn’t like that. “Here,” he says, walking into Jonny’s office, and tossing a cranberry salad onto the table. “You haven’t eaten today.”

Jonny eyes him suspiciously, and Patrick scowls in response. “What? It’s legit food. No gluten, no dairy, no fun. All your favourites.”

Jonny pokes at the salad, frowning deeply. “I like cranberries?” he says, like he’s not fully sure.

“I know that,” Patrick replies impatiently. “It’s why I got it for you.”

“You got it for me because I like it?” Jonny says, face softening. His dark eyes go all liquidly, and...hot. They watch Patrick swallow around the sudden dryness in his throat. “You noticed that I haven’t eaten?” The eyes are knowing now, and making Patrick’s heart thump loudly in his chest. 

Great, he’s probably coming down with something. Tinsilitis has been running rampant.

“Well,” he says grumpily. “It’s Christmas Eve in two days, and you can’t be in charge of loading the sleigh if you faint with hunger. I didn’t work my assets off for you to get all malnourished and forgetful. The children deserve my talents, Jonny.”

Ah, snowballs. Now Jonny’s smile is knowing. “Uh-huh,” he says, leaning back and lifting his clogged feet onto the table.

Patrick scowls again. “I don’t like you,” he says, although he’s not really sure why he says it. Especially as it just makes Jonny smile more. 

“Gah,” Patrick declares, and storms back to the workshop.

“Your ears are red,” Artemi says. 

“Are they pointy?” Patrick asks hopefully.

Artemi leans in a little for a closer look. “No,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Well then,” Patrick shrugs, reaching for super strong glue and giving it a long sniff.

“Elf ears get red when they’re having emotions,” Artemi insists.

Patrick takes another sniff. He’s not sure what to say to that. He’s not an elf. He’s not having emotions. And even if he were, it’s pretty moot; he’s already kissed Jonny and got diddly in the wings department. Or the mate department.

*****

He doesn’t see much of Jonny the following day, or much of anyone, for that matter. It’s so busy that there’s little time to eat, to rest, or even change the music. It’s long past hometime when Patrick leaves for home, his legs barely holding him up. His head’s pounding, and the first thing he’s going to do tomorrow is find the Elfis Sings Christmas CD, and hide it. And by hide, he means destroy. But seriously, there are only so many times anyone should be subjected to a loop of _In The Grotto_ and _Sleigh Down_.

It doesn’t help his ears at all when he passes by Jonny’s place. There’s enough noise coming from in there to make the house shake. Drills, and grinders, and hammers, and Santa only knows what else.

Patrick creeps closer just as a muffled voice calls out. “Jingle balls!” That’s definitely Jonny, and Patrick is definitely shocked.

“Criminey Crickets!... Fudgecicles!... Dadgummit!… crrrrr...istmas crackers!!!”

Patrick can feel his own eyes bug out a little. That’s a lot of very colourful language, from Jonny, of all elves. That’s the kind of language that gets you sent to the Cave of Huggles and Snuggles. Just ask Shawsy.

Slowly, Patrick takes a step backwards, and then a few more until he’s passing the windowsill. He stops to take a cautious lick.

Yep, still kale. 

*****

It’s finally Christmas Eve, and Patrick is sorry now that he didn’t knock on Jonny’s door last night, because Jonny is missing.

“This is most irregular,” Santa says. Like everyone else, he’s standing outside Jonny’s office, looking at where Jonny should be but definitely isn’t. “And nobody has seen him at all?”

There’s a synchronised headshake. 

“Hmm,” Santa says, stroking his beard. “Well.” He _hmms_ and _wells_ for a few more minutes before clapping his hands decisively. “Okay, Sharpy, as Alternate Chief Elf, you’ll have to step up and organise the packing of the sleigh. Everyone else, as you were. I’m going back to bed until Take Off.”

Sharpy gets right on with some shouting, while Patrick stares at Santa in dismay. “What are you going to do about Jonny?” he demands.

“He’ll show up,” Santa shrugs.

“He’ll… he’ll show up? Santa, Jonny is missing!”

Santa’s whiskers twitch a little. “Why do you care so much, young fae? Jonny sucks, right? He's so bossy. He thinks he's all that. Acts like he can do anything. He's _sooo_ annoying.”

Patrick gapes at him. “I can think those things, and still not want him to be missing.” He stops and rubs at the back of his neck. “And besides, Jonny doesn’t suck, totally, and, and he does this smile thing… oh, look, someone needs to find him.”

“Good idea,” Santa booms. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“What? No! You can’t leave _me_ to it. I’m the _worst_.”

“Hurry, now, Patrick, Jonny needs you.”

“He does?” Patrick asks, but Santa is already gone, leaving Patrick marvelling at how someone so large can move so fast.

“He does?” Patrick says again, incredulous. 

He starts back at Jonny’s house. Patrick rattles the door until the key falls down from the ledge and hits him on the head. “Ouch,” he grumbles, turning the lock. “Who leaves a… woah.” 

The house is in a complete mess. Furniture has been pushed against one wall to free up space in the room, and scattered all around are empty cans of oil, pieces of metal, cuts of wood, tins of paint, and more powertools than a collective of tradesmen would need. There are grimy handprints and smudged footprints _everywhere_.

Patrick steps gingerly across the floor, and still manages to stand on a drill bit, and come perilously close to falling onto a saw with greedy looking teeth. When he gets to Jonny’s bedroom, things aren’t much better. But instead of tools, the ground is littered with scrunched up balls of paper. Patrick reaches for a few, unfurling and smoothing them out as best he can. They’re drawings, of some sort, although Patrick has no idea of what. There are a lot of numbers and a lot of scribbles. Jonny is a shocking sketcher.

He’s also definitely not here. Patrick sits down on the bed for a recon, with himself. He could try to grocers, and then the post office. If Jonny isn’t there, he might be at the laundrette, or gym, or the barbers, or the sports store, or - 

Patrick stops, stomach swirling like it does when he’s had too much liquorice. Jonny isn’t at any of those places, because if Jonny was in town, then he’d be at work, on this most important of days.

Which means that Jonny is _missing_ -missing.

And he really does need Patrick.

Oh no. 

Poor Jonny.

*****

The reindeer refuse to help him, although Patrick knew it was a long shot, because a) they need to rest before tonight, and b) nobody but Santa is allowed to drive them.

His insistence that he needs an aerial view falls on disinterested ears.

He goes in search of the faeries, and finds them all together, flying high in the sky. Glitter falls from their fluttering wings, making everything below them shine.

They’re stunning. And they make Patrick’s heart feel a little mean.

“Don’t you know we can only carry our mates and and our children when we fly?” Shawsy says. “Or maybe you don’t, what with you not having any actual faerie experience.” He swoops low and hooks his hands under Patrick’s arms and tries to take off. But despite all the huffing and puffing, Patrick remains rooted to the ground, and covered with glitter.

“Knock if off,” he hisses at Shawsy. “You’re shedding all over me.”

“Oh relax,” Shawsy laughs, taking to the sky again. “I’m just yanking your wings.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and turns to Abby. “Can’t one of you fly around and see if you can spot him?”

“Sorry,” she answers sympathetically. “Santa says it’s your job. He has faith in you.”

“Santa drinks too much eggnog,” Patrick mutters, and takes his leave. He’s really starting to worry now, not only because he’s about to fail at another job, but because Jonny is alone somewhere, stuck somewhere. Probably cold, definitely peeved. Maybe even scared or hurt. And the last thing Patrick ever said to him was _I don’t like you._

He’s beginning to despair when he walks past - 

Hoss’s Snowmobile Store.

Patrick doesn’t have a licence. Never really saw the point, as he didn’t travel very far, and he had been anticipating a more self-reliant mode of transport.

Technically, you need a licence to drive a snowmobile.

And technically, borrowing something without asking is stealing.

But.

“Jonny needs me,” Patrick says bravely, puffing out his chest, and commandeering the nearest vehicle. What’s the worst that can happen? Someone will chase him, which really just makes the search party bigger. 

He starts in ever increasing loops around the town, until there’s no sign of houses, and still no sign of Jonny. The hare hasn’t seen him. Neither have the ermines, or the fox.

The polar bear asks Patrick to speak louder.

“I said,” Patrick shouts, hand cupped around his mouth. “Have you seen an elf? He’s about yea high, wears a green velvet coat? Stripy tights that are pretty hard to miss?”

“Come closer,” the polar bear suggests, smiling with all of his teeth. He waves a giant paw, claws bigger than Patrick’s head.

“Um, I’m good here,” Patrick calls back, and then decides he’ll be even better further away. The polar bear looks hungry. Which means that he probably hasn’t seen Jonny. Or eaten him.

Patrick continues on for a long time, until everything is white - the sky, the ground, and all between them. He’s blinking snow from his eyes when he spots something black before him. He skids the snowmobile to a dramatic halt, and steps down carefully. The black thing is a piece of metal, and there’s another not far from it, and then something brown and clog shaped.

Patrick’s heart tumbles as he scoops up Jonny’s lone shoe. He looks around for the either the match or the owner, and follows the trail of wreckage to where Jonny is, curled up on a snowbank. 

“Jonny,” Patrick gasps, falling to his knees and cradling Jonny’s unconscious body. Jonny’s eyes flutter a little, but stay closed.

“What happened here?” Patrick wonders, looking around at what appears to be a crash site, and then -

He knows. He knows what happened. He knows what Jonny did, what's Jonny's been doing behind closed doors for months now.

“You silly billy goose,” he scolds, starting to strip Jonny from his sodden and ripped clothes. “You noodle brained doofus…” He mutters to himself the whole time, tugging and pulling until Jonny is naked and solid in Patrick’s arms. Patrick has never been so glad for the fae part of him that keeps his body temperature at a constant, making it a big hot water bottle for Jonny to defrost against. “You soppy sausage,” Patrick continues, rubbing his hands up and down Jonny’s back, holding him as tight as possible. “You ninnie minnie barrel -”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Jonny mumbles, and Patrick almost drops him in shock.

“Jonny,” he whispers, his eyes stinging with relief. “Oh thank goodness you’re okay.”

“Okay, and… naked,” Jonny says, looking down his own body. “In my defence, it is very cold.”

“You made me wings,” Patrick blurts. “You made me wings.”

“Oh,” Jonny says, turning to make a face at the remains of his creation. “Yeah, they weren’t very good, in the end. I wanted to give them to you today, so I took them for a trial run, and, well, things went a bit -”

“You made me wings,” Patrick repeats, a little wobble in his voice.

Jonny shrugs, his eyes fixing over Patrick’s shoulder. “You were so sad, and I hated that -”

Patrick kisses him, and this time Jonny kisses back. He kisses Patrick until Patrick feels hot, like his skin is breaking with it, like he’s floating up and away, weightless and free. He feels like he’s soaring -

“Patrick,” Jonny mutters against his lips. “You’re flying.”

“I know,” Patrick agrees, pecking Jonny’s mouth some more. “It’s just that you’re a really good kisser.”

“No, Patrick,” Jonny insists, pushing him back. “You’re actually flying.”

“What?” Patrick frowns, and then realises that he can’t feel the ground beneath his butt. He can’t actually feel any ground under him, and that’s because he’s in the air, holding Jonny like a bride.

“Great Caesar’s ghost,” he gasps, turning to see the tips of his wings, and then spinning around like a dog trying to see its tail.

“Patrick,” Jonny shouts from far away.

“Shoot,” Patrick cries, and swoops down just before Jonny hits the ground, for the second time today.

“You dropped me,” Jonny says, aghast. 

“I caught you,” Patrick returns. He settles them both onto the snow, and turns again, frustrated by not being able to catch a full length view of his new wings.

“Here,” Jonny says, putting his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “See what I see.” 

Patrick closes his eyes and looks at what Jonny is showing him - himself, as a fully formed faerie, his cheeks flushed, his smile bright. But mostly, his wings. Man, they’re the most amazing wings Patrick has ever seen. They’re at least two foot bigger and wider than any of the faeries’ in the village, and the feathers are tinged with silvers, pinks, and pale blues. Patrick bats them carefully and laughs when Jonny sneezes.

“I’m beautiful,” he says when he opens his eyes to see Jonny’s looking back at him. “Everyone is going to be so jealous.”

“And you’re going to be so obnoxious,” Jonny sighs, reaching out to carefully brush his fingers against the feathers.

Which is something only a mate can do to a faerie. “But,” Patrick says, watching Jonny’s hands. “I already kissed you before, a while ago, and nothing happened.”

“You kissed me because you wanted something,” Jonny says. “Not because you wanted me.” His face gets all knowing again. “You want me now though.”

“Pfft,” Patrick scoffs, stepping closer and wrapping his wings around Jonny. “I don’t even like you.”

“You love me,” Jonny grins. 

“Banged your head pretty hard when you fell, huh?” Patrick teases, and then leans in to nuzzles Jonny’s jaw. “You gave me wings, Jonny.”

“And you found me,” Jonny returns. “I knew you would.”

“So did Santa,” Patrick agrees, and not just today. Way back, when he sat Patrick on his lap and told him to never stop looking for his love.

“So,” Jonny says. “Let’s see what these wings can do, eh? Maybe we can make it back for Take Off.”

“As you wish,” Patrick says grandly, and scoops Jonny up, sailing towards the sky.

~ fin ~


End file.
